


ain't nothing that i need

by tumbleoutyourhair



Series: flying and burning [9]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, not that they'll ever admit it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 06:27:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9535817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tumbleoutyourhair/pseuds/tumbleoutyourhair
Summary: “what’s wrong with you?”simmons blinks. “what? nothing, why?”grif narrows his eyes at him. “you’re making spaghetti bolognese. you never make that unless you’re upset over something and the last time was when they cancelled almost human.”“it was a good show!” the redhead flushes and something pleased settles in the pit of grif’s stomach. “the network just didn’t give it enough time and they put it in a shitty timeslot anyways–”





	

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: finding the other wearing their clothes
> 
> rated for dem swears 
> 
> this was another thing that i hated when i first posted it. now i'm all //smooshes face THEYRE SO FUCKING CUTE I LOVE THIS

grif hasn’t been home in three days and he never once thought he’d be happy to see the dirty, peeling entryway of his crummy building in a million years–and yet here we are.

tucker and wash were finally moving in together and what was supposed to be a day of ordering donut around and drinking all the beer had turned into a fiasco of missing cats, broken down u-hauls, and faulty wiring resulting in the smallest of fires it’s fine tucker junior found the fire extinguisher. grif had banned tucker from calling in any more favours for at least a month before turning his phone off and heading home.

now he hauls himself up the stairs, hoping that ~~simmons is home~~ there’s something in the fridge and wondering if he can con one more day off out of sarge in the morning. he can hear puttering in the kitchen and if his heart skips a beat it’s only at the thought of food duh. he turns the corner and spends more minutes then he’ll admit quietly watching his–watching simmons mutter to himself as he watches something on the stovetop. he probably would’ve kept staring like a creep but his stomach chooses that moment to let out a monstrous gurgle that startles simmons into knocking a _thankfully empty_  pan off the counter and spinning around with wide eyes.

“grif!”

“sup dweeb,” he says cooly, sauntering into the kitchen like he hasn’t been lurking like a lunatic– _nice alliteration,_  pipes a voice in his head that sounds annoyingly like donut. 

“what are you doing here? i thought you said you weren’t going to come back til tomorrow morning?” he sounds oddly flustered and grif eyes him as he wanders over to inspect what’s cooking.

“yeah well tucker and wash were being gross and sappy and donut kept making noises about  _another_  vegan meal and i refuse to submit myself to that kind of torture.” it’s spaghetti bolognese which is weird because that’s one of simmons’ go-to comfort meals and he doesn’t seem that upset and what the fuck why hasn’t grif heard of this. “what’s wrong with you?”

simmons blinks. “what? nothing, why?”

grif narrows his eyes at him. “you’re making spaghetti bolognese. you never make that unless you’re upset over something and the last time was when they cancelled almost human.”

“it was a good show!” the redhead flushes and something pleased settles in the pit of grif’s stomach. “the network just didn’t give it enough time and they put it in a shitty timeslot anyways–”

“alright, nerd, calm down. my point is that _this_ ,” he gestures pointedly at the simmering pot, “is a comfort meal so clearly you need comforting about _something_  so what’s going on?”

simmons’ face goes even redder and he fidgets anxiously. “pft _whaaat_  nothing’s going on. i’m completely fine! what a guy can’t just get a craving every now and then?! i don’t think i like this interrogative attitude you’ve got going on and frankly–”

grif rolls his eyes as he works himself into a heated rant. he glances around to see if he can pick up any clues, but besides the apartment being in a slightly messier state than usual he doesn’t notice–he narrows his eyes. simmons is notorious about chores and grif being out of the house for three days should of had this place looking like a mausoleum. but there’s at least three empty pop cans sitting by the sink and a familiar brightly coloured box that comes from the bakery down the road.

his eyes drift back to simmons who’s now lecturing the boiling spaghetti. his hair is definitely more wild than usual and he’s wearing pyjama pants at four o’clock in the afternoon and–

“what the fuck are you wearing?”

simmons snaps his mouth shut so fast his teeth clack. he stares determinedly at the sauce, refusing to look up even as his flush comes back full force. “what? this? i don’t know i just pulled it out of my laundry.”

bull-fucking-shit. the sweater he’s wearing is far too large in the shoulders for his lanky frame, and is exposing distracting amounts of collarbone. it’s also too short in the arms and doesn’t reach the juts of simmons’ wrists. 

conclusion: it ain’t fucking simmons’ sweater.

“you’re wearing my sweater.”

simmons makes a noise like a delating balloon. “i am not!”

grif couldn’t stop the smirk if you waved a hotdog in front of his face. “you’re wearing my sweater and you’ve been eating those cronuts that i like.”

the redhead folds his arms defensively but it really doesn’t do anything except tug the collar of his– _grif’s_ –sweater further along his shoulder. “so?”

he meeps when grif pushes into his space, crowding him against the counter. there’s something dark and warm curling behind his ribcage and grif wants to keep it. “ _so_  just admit it simmons.”

“admit what?” he says weakly, even as his fingers ghost against grif’s hips.

grif arches a brow and grins up at him. “you missed me,” he says cockily.

simmons squawks, “i did not! i loved how quiet it was without your stupid video games, or that i didn’t have to worry about tripping over your fucking shoes all the time–”

“you’re practically pining like a teenage girl–”

“no one using all the hot water–”

“i can smell my shampoo by the way–”

“something other than _hot pockets_ –”

“you might as well just admit it, i missed you too.”

simmons twitches, words stumbling to a halt. he blinks at grif for a moment, then a small smile curls at his lips. “yeah?”

grif chuckles. “yeah,” he says, “no one bitches at me quite like you do.”

simmons sniffs, absurdly pleased and grif can’t help but lean in to kiss the stupid look off his face. simmons curls around him, hands settling firmly on his hips, and grif tries not to laugh at the taste of his cinnamon toothpaste on the redhead’s tongue. he pulls back after a few sweet moments, smug when simmons follows him.

“not that i wouldn’t love to continue this,” he says quietly into the space between them, “but i think your sauce is burning.”

simmons startles and shoves past him with a dismayed wail. grif laughs and laughs as he’s berated and settles into the feeling of home.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to [meeeeeeee](http://agentwashingtrash.tumblr.com/)


End file.
